


The Thing About Trust

by EducationalAdmiral



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: (those aren't main characters don't worry), 5 Times, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Childhood, Drug Abuse, Episode: s01e01 And the Crown of King Arthur, Episode: s01e02 And the Sword in the Stone, Episode: s03e09 And the Fatal Separation, Episode: s03e10 And the Wrath of Chaos, Hurt/Comfort, Jacob Stone Centric, Kinda, Listen Jacob's trust issues are important to me, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, SO, Suicide, Trust, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EducationalAdmiral/pseuds/EducationalAdmiral
Summary: He wasn’t going to let this happen to him again. Too many times, too many goddamn times, someone in his life had lost their mind and Jacob had been caught in the crossfire. He wouldn’t let it happen again.If it meant never being friends with anyone ever again, he’d do that. He’d certainly never let anyone call him that nickname again, Jake. It reminded him too much of the betrayal, of wounds that may never heal. Not completely, anyway.///Or, five times Jacob Stone felt betrayed, and one time people helped him through it.





	The Thing About Trust

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains references to death, child abuse, drug abuse, and suicide. Proceed with caution.
> 
> If you want to skip these parts, the death is through the first parts, child abuse is in the second, and drug abuse and suicide are in the third.

He was seven years old when it happened. Only a child, really, but advanced for his age.

  
He read and wrote well, and he was already in the third grade since he had his numbers and letters down and they let him skip kindergarten. He was pretty grown up too, he understood a lot of things his peers didn't.

  
For example, no other kid kid his age understood the tragedy of Vincent Van Gogh. Not just that he killed himself, but what that really _meant._ The ear thing he knew too, but it didn't fascinate him as much.

  
He thought about Van Gogh a lot when his mom died. He thought about Van Gogh's sadness, he thought about how many nights he must've cried himself to sleep. He thought about the poverty, the hunger. He thought about the suicide the most though.

  
He missed his mom at first. He missed her before she was even dead.  
  
She was locked up in a hospital bed, unable to move herself around, unable to breath without that clear snake under her nose. She was trapped there, so he never saw her. He never got to taste her home cooked meals, even if they were just boiled pasta, sauce from a jar, and garlic bread with burnt edges. He never got to show her the little stickers that peppered the tops of his spelling tests. He never got her goodnight kisses, her tucking his blanket under his sides to keep him wrapped up tightly.  
  
He thought about Van Gogh a lot while she was in the hospital. _Van Gogh was lonely, wasn't he?_ He wondered a lot of the time of he was lonelier than Van Gogh. He figured the artist probably had him beat.  
  
It was the smoking that got his mom. Her lungs were burnt to a crisp and no longer functional, and it was only a matter of time before the rest of her body gave out.  
  
It took eight days after she was hospitalized for her to die. It took thirteen days after that for Jacob to find out his mom was really gone.  
  
He had guessed, but his young mind had refused to believe it. He started to feel a lot older than seven years old then.  
  
He was sad at first. Sad for himself. He cried a lot, he cried for a long time. He missed three weeks of school before his dad forced him to go back.  
  
He remembered feeling… angry, though he couldn't tell where to direct it.  
  
He was mad at his mother for not quitting smoking. He had told her it _smelled,_ told her that her breath smelt like _rot_ , told her that he wished she didn't have to step outside every hour to light a cigarette.  
  
He was furious with the hospital for not saving her. They were doctors, they were _smart._ They should've know how to fix _this-_ to fix _her_ . _To fix his mom._  
  
He was enraged with his dad for not telling him, and for not letting him visit her at the hospital. He should've _known_ he was losing her- he should've known when they lost her. He should've been able to wrap his arms around his mom one last time, feel her soft kisses on his cheeks, forehead and nose. He should've been there when she left. When she walked away from their world and started to head upstairs to pearly gates.  
  
He was mad at God for taking her so early.

  
His mom was only 28.  
  
He was only seven years old, and he thought about Van Gogh a lot.  
  
/////  
  
He was ten years old, star student of his sixth grade class even though the work meant nothing to him. He was numb to the pages at this point, equations piling up in front of him. Sometimes the sequences all ran hopelessly together.  
  
He was the youngest in his grade by a large margin. He felt lonely a lot. His teachers didn't pay much attention to him, it was a public school, and the public schools did as the public does. The teachers were underpaid and dark bags clung to the bottom of their eyes like they were lifelines. They were clinging to ideas of genius students who would listen, bright eyes and brighter ideas, oblivious to the genius sitting in the back of the classroom.

He got used to it fast. He considered skipping more grades, brain already advanced enough to help his eighth grade ‘friends’ with their algebra homework, including polynomials and good ‘ol Pythagoras. They weren’t really his friends, and sometimes he was more aware of that than others.

Usually when he refused their requests they shoved him to the ground, knees hitting with a crack and head down. The teachers did nothing, saw him as nothing. He got used to it.

He heard a lot of adults say that middle school were the worst years of their lives. The worst years to be alive. He wondered if they were right. He wondered a lot. He thought a lot.

He thought about running away a lot.

Of finding somewhere else to be, somewhere that didn’t have piles of homework stacking up on his desk and pencils in his pockets, fists in his face every afternoon. But school wasn’t the worst of it- he’d take hiding in lockers and bathrooms and handing over ten pages of math that wasn’t his than the other place he spent his time. His house.

Considering that lung cancer took his mom, one would think his father would’ve put down his own box of cigarettes. However, his father’s addiction only got worse. Jacob’s house smelt of smoke most of the time, lights dim and carpet brown and dirty and stained. Papers floating over tables and mismatched chairs. Sometimes the power went out all together and didn’t get fixed for weeks, and the ac and heater were out more than they were on. Jacob got used to it though.

He got used to his dad’s drinking, too. Jacob used to hate the smell of smoke more than anything, but he now found it a solace away from the stench of booze that hung from his father’s lips most nights. At least when his dad smoked it only had the smell as consequence. The booze, however, made his father angry.

Isaac Stone had never been the sweetest father on the block, that much had been clear from the start, but he was a decent enough father back when Jacob’s mother was around. Jacob wouldn’t have asked for anything more than what he had.

But when his wife left the picture, Isaac’s life crumble to bits. She was the only that saved him from diving off the deep end and dying of alcohol poisoning in his twenties, but now that she was gone, nothing was stopping him. He took up the drinking quickly, almost a hundred times faster than it had taken him to set him down. That anger that had finally dissipated returned and made itself known, but only to one.

His father only had to be a little drunk to hit him. A slap or a punch Jacob didn’t mind much, he was used to the bruises, and he’d listened in on some of the girls in his honor math class to get a grasp on how to cover them up if he needed to, despite the idea of boys wearing makeup being taboo. The goal was for it to be impossible to notice anyway. Bruises were just as easy to cover up as pimples, if not easier.

It was when father had drank a lot, though, then Jacob did mind. When the punches just kept coming, or when he took out a belt instead of just clenching his fist.

The worst nights though were the ones where the smoking and the drinking we combined with the gambling. When his dad got fired up about a lost bet, or when he swore he saw someone slip a card in a poker game, but he had no proof. And when he had nowhere else to take out his anger, he pointed his fists at his son.

It was a particularly bad night over Christmas Break, Jacob huddled up in his room working on four essays, only one of which is his own, his dad coming through the front door, stumbling, the stench of booze radiating from him so badly Jacob could smell it when he opened the front door.

He flinched out of reflex and moved across his room quickly to his bedroom door, hoping he could jam it or lock their or something before his dad came. His luck wasn't great, his hands just reaching the lock when his dad threw the door open, knocking Jacob off his balance and backward. He landed on the ground with a thud, and only a second passed before he was scrambling away from the door instinctively.

“D-dad! You're home.” His voice shook when he spoke, though it didn't betray his equally nervous body language.

His dad didn't speak a word to him, teeth drawn tightly against his teeth and eyes somehow sharp and blurry at the same time. His face was shiny with sweat and Jacob felt his stomach start to loop.

The first punch hurt a lot.

The second, more.

Isaac reached down and grabbed Jacob by the collar, ripping him off the ground and high enough to wear his feet hovered right over the floor. Whatever Isaac said to him was indecipherable, but he felt the spit his his cheeks anyway. His dad shook him once, twice, three times, then threw him to the ground. His back cracked at the impact.

He looked up at his father, his eyes wide. His father looked horrible, eyes wet and nose dripping, cheeks bright red and teeth yellow, beard overgrown and eyebrows the same.

Jacob felt bad for his father most of the time. He hated to see his father so torn up, so.. _broken._ Jacob knew there was nothing he could do to fix it but… He wished he could. A lot.

His father smacked him across the head harshly, clapping his hand against Jacob’s ear purposefully. His eardrum ached in response and his ear started ringing. He brought a hand up while he watched his father stumble out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

He sat there for a moment, breathless, staring at the door. Then, he started to move slowly to his desk to get back to his work. He'd hate to take another beating when he went back to school. He pulled himself up to his chair and settled himself, adjusting the beam of his desk lamp and taking his pencil back into hand.

He was surprised to hear his door open again, his dad grumbling as he threw it open and the handle banging into a dent in the wall, making it deeper. Jacob jumped and turned to face him.

“Dad?” He asked hesitantly. His father didn't turn to face him immediately, he kept his eyes downcast and his breath was heavy.

“Shut up,” He grumbled, straightening his back out. He approached Jacob quickly, suddenly grabbing him by the hair as best he could. “Shut up.”

“Dad-”

Isaac yanked Jacob’s head backwards and then slammed his forehead forward into his desk, a loud crack ringing out from the impact and Jacob cried out. Isaac let go of his son and Jacob leaned back in his chair, brain aching loudly. Isaac drew back again, then grabbed Jacob’s chair and threw him out of it and onto the floor. Jacob fell to the ground roughly, too disoriented to try to catch himself. His back on the ground, father towering over him intimidatingly.

Isaac threw another punch at him, only further upsetting his bleeding temple. Then he kicked into Jacob’s side with his thick boots and Jacob groaned in reply, body curling in on itself. His dad delivered a few more kicks before stopping and staring down at his son in silence, spitting at him, then huffing and storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him once again.

Jacob stayed on the floor afterwards, clutching at his side with one hand and putting pressure on his forehead with the other. He _hated_ nights like these.

He felt angry, but also sad when he thought about it all. When he thought about his father finally turning his life around, only to crack under pressure. He got mad when his father turned fists on him, but sad because he knew that taking a beating was the only way to help his father sober up. Even if it was temporary.

The feeling was the same as he used to feel back when his mom died, but he couldn't put a word to it back then. He knew one now.

Jacob Stone felt betrayed by his father, betrayed by the world for taking his father. He had no idea which hurt more.

Probably the aching in ribs. That hurt the most.

Jacob felt blood at his lips and also dripping down his forehead. He closed his eyes and groaned, curling in on himself tighter. His missed his mother, he missed how his father used to be.

He got used to the feeling fast. He thought about running away, but knew he couldn’t. He had nowhere to go, and his body wasn’t going to be able to carry him far. He got used to nursing his wounds. When his dad would hit him, he’d try to watch the technique, hoping he could learn from it. Maybe one day he’d be able to defend himself.

 

/////

 

He was in his late twenties, and surrounded in ice. The cold was uncomfortable, but he dared not move. Waking up in a bath of ice could mean only one thing, really.

Still, the ripe pain in his abdomen hurt awfully and surprised him when his body twitched against the ice. He sat up slowly, clenching his teeth harshly and groaning quietly in pain. He took a good look at his surroundings. The room was dark, and his eyesight blurring certainly wasn’t helping him make sense of anything. Still, he could make out a dirty gray sink against the wall opposite the one the tub he was sitting in, and a grimy toilet near it. Either his sight was failing him, or the light was flickering. He pressed a hand to the wound on his abdomen and lifted his wet shirt, revealing a line of crudely done stitches. He grimaced at the sight, and suddenly got a better understanding of his circumstances.

He remembered a close friend of his mentioning something about being low on money. Jacob knew he did drugs, it was obvious. But just about everyone he knew had tried, or gotten stuck doing one way or another. It was the drugs or the drinking or the smoking. Jacob found often that, in a room of more than two people, a third of them had tried everything, and half were still addicted. A fourth to the drugs, and half to the drink or the smoke, hell, _both_ sometimes. Eventually he had gotten used to the signs of addition since practically everyone had them. He’d foolishly grown numb to his friends tells of problems, piling up till his friend had to do something about them.

His friend couldn’t end the drinking though, or the drugs, or the smoking. He’d stop the debt, temporarily at least.

Jacob supposed that he should’ve turned him into the cops or something, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He wasn’t a snitch, and he got used to threats of what would happen if one day he decided to be. Plus, Jacob had felt betrayed so long, he wasn’t about to bring that feeling onto anyone else. Not like Jacob could’ve turned him in anyway, he couldn’t afford being taken away from work to be a witness in a court case if his buddy lawyered up. Plus, cops weren’t fond of his father, drunken bastard that he was, and people down in this town tended to project him onto Jacob.

There was a noise at the door of the bathroom and it caught Jacob’s attention. He whipped his head to face it, immediately regretting the action as he felt his brain stir and swim in his head. He watched the door open slowly, his friend entering hesitantly.

Though Jacob’s sight was still blurry and unfocused, he could still recognize the face. His friend Zachary stood at the door, hands shaky and bloody, demeanor nervous. Eyes dull, hair flat, face sweaty. Jacob felt disgusted. The last thing he remembered was going out for beer with his friend and watching a football game at Buffalo Wild Wings. His friend must’ve snuck something in his drink and dragged him out to.. _wherever the hell they were afterwards._

_God,_ Jacob had bad taste in friends.

“I’m sorry, Jake,” Zachary mumbled, wringing his hands together in front of his chest. His shirt was stained with blood, Jacob assumed it was his. “I just- I didn’t know what to do.. And- and.” Zachary sniffed, whipped his face with his sleeve roughly.

“Hey, man,” Jacob said, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Jacob was no longer looking at Zachary’s face, but rather the gun protruding from his jeans.

“No, no. No.” Zachary’s voice was scratchy, nose suddenly bleeding. “Jake, none of this is right. I-I shouldn’ta done this. I just..”

Withdrawal, Jacob’s brain provided. Zachary was going through withdrawal. However much money he had gotten for whatever he took from Jacob, he assumed a kidney, mustn’t have been enough. Or maybe he’d damaged it too much to get even a cent, god knew his friend had shaky hands, aftermath of his own addiction. Jacob found it somewhat ironic that the drugs stopped the drug money, but not enough to laugh.

“Zach, it’s alright. It’ll be fine,” Jacob started to get nervous. His body was cold, and starting to shiver, each movement sending jets of pain radiating through his body and he had to fight all his instincts not to cry out. He needed to get out of there, make it to an actual doctor who could fix the damage to his body. The bathroom was unsightly, the ice around him stained red with blood, and Jacob was certain he would get an infection. Zach was in no state to have considered the cleanliness of the location. Jacob started to push himself up, only to find himself too weak to attempt such a thing without risking passing out.

“Jake,” Zach cried, voice cracking. He stopped talking, a sob coming through his throat. “I.. I ain’t gonna be able to beat this.”

“Zach-"

“I’m sorry.. I’m sorry I dragged you into this.” Tears were dripping down Zach’s face, snot dripping from his nose and the whites of eyes gone bright red. One of his hands went to his hair and he brushed it backward, gripping it tightly and then releasing it when another sob broke his throat. Then, that hand reached for the gun in his jeans.

“Zach, _please listen,_ it’s gonna be alright. We can take care of ya, you can overcome this.” Jake was desperate. He’d already lost too many friends, he couldn’t lose another.

Zach held it to his head shakily, arm quivering with each quake of his shoulders, sobs shaking his whole body. Jacob felt nauseous.

Zachary pulled the trigger.

Jacob threw up on the floor, part from the pain, mainly from the shock.

He didn’t understand _why_ he kept losing people. He must’ve done _something,_ in this life or one previous, to deserve this hell. Suddenly, he was crying. The sobs of his own shoulders further upset his wound, blood beginning to seep from it and into the icy water far faster than before. Too fast. _Dangerously_ fast.

Using all the strength he could gather he gripped the side of the tub and dragged himself over the side, falling to the ground, the hard concrete ground, with an awful sound. He crawled to his friend and cried over his lifeless body for only a moment, doing everything he could to divert his eyes from the spray of blood and brains on the wall. For a moment, he thought he might be sick again. This time, the pain and shock equal.

His stomach only started to feel worse as he searched his now dead friends pockets for a cell phone, and he found himself unable to rejoice when he found one. He did the only thing he knew to do, and dialed 911. He gave as much information as he could to the responder, panting into the phone due to lack of breath and overwhelming pain.

Soon enough paramedics arrived and he was rushed to the hospital. His friend was taken out of the house in a body-bag.

Jacob was distraught, because logically he knew that he shouldn’t feel too bad about it. The guy stole his _kidney,_ for God's sake, and, really, he brought the insanity on himself. Everyone knew the side effects of drugs down in these parts, _everyone_ knew. Yet they all dove head first in anyway.

Jacob had suggested he stop, but had never gone further than that. Maybe he should’ve. Maybe he should’ve snitched. He would've been any better off than he was now, presumably.  His friend could’ve gotten help, he would’ve done.. _that._

Part of Jacob felt angry. That was the logical part of him, knowing that this guy was not his friend- he was a _traitor._ You can’t hurt your friends- _you most certainly cannot steal your friends organs._ Every shot of pain that coursed through his nerves made that logical part of his brain angrier.

He wasn’t going to let this happen to him again. Too many times, _too many goddamn times_ , had one of his dumbass friends gotten drunk off their rockers or lost their minds and Jacob had been caught in the crossfire. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

If it meant never being friends with anyone ever again, he’d do that. He’d certainly never let anyone call him that nickname again, _Jake_. It reminded him too much of the betrayal, of wounds that may never heal. Not completely, anyway.

Jacob Stone vowed never to let the smoke, the drugs, the drink, the debt, or the betrayal take him down. Ever. Again.

 

/////

 

Over a decade had passed, and Jacob Stone had built up walls almost forty miles high. No one had any chance of getting in, and he liked it that way.

Jacob Stone was cautious, maybe too much so for his own good. He kept his distance from his father while being just close enough to make sure the man didn’t drink himself to death. He drank just enough to keep the pain numb, but not quite enough to consider himself an alcoholic, or to get pulled over drunk. He let people know only the sides of him he wanted them to, and wouldn't let them get even a millimeter closer. He wrote under a dozen different pen names to keep his real identity safe so no one would doubt his intelligence based on his origins.

All of that crumbled away into a worthless pile of nothing when he was at a bar and, suddenly, a women with a tattoo in a language that he and no one else in his _stupid little town_ could read, was attempting to kidnap him. Maybe kill him. Hell if he knew what he’d done to deserve it. And just as suddenly there was a _stranger_ defending him. And even more suddenly she knew exactly who he was and every _damn_ secret he thought he’d long since buried.

Jacob Stone wanted to scream when he was standing in the doors of a library, huge and vast, being told that magic was real. Then, he was on a goose chase for the crown of _King Arthur_ with four strangers he had no reason to trust, but for some reason he did.

And they all knew who he was, how _smart_ he was, and they weren't fazed by it- and they were smart enough to keep up with him.

And he was standing in the center of a circle of tall stones, trying to decipher a code for that crown and the guy knew their exact coordinates without checking and the girl was calculating the Sun's path in her head, and he was _mesmerized._

And then, all the joy he was feeling came crumbling down around him when he found out that girl, Cassandra, the one with the tumor, betrayed them. Handed him and the kid with the accent _, Ezekiel,_ the incredibly smart man, _Flynn,_ and that beautiful, strong woman, _Eve,_ over to people who had been trying to kill them.

All for her own life. All to save herself from a tumor in her brain. Four lives, more if what Flynn had said about loose magic was true, for _herself._ She was selfish, purely selfish, and it disgusted Jacob.

_(At least he hadn’t had time to grow too attached before she betrayed them.)_

There was a sour taste in his mouth when he looked down at Flynn’s wound, part of him wondering if that girl, Cassandra, if that _bitch_ would even feel bad to see him like this. The next time he saw her, he’d hit her good. He didn't care if you weren't supposed to hit a lady, all bets were off when there was blood on your hands. Blood that didn't need to be spilt.

He didn’t know why he had that bitter taste of betrayal. He shouldn’t’ve let himself trust these people in the first place. He had no reason- he shouldn't have opened up the door to his heart to these people who had done _nothing_ to earn it.

He steeled himself and made a decision. He’d save the world, and Flynn, if he could, which he doubted after the tenth time he refused treatment, only repeating that it was a _‘magical wound.’_

Jacob would get justice for this man, he'd get revenge on the people who tried to kill him and, if he was lucky, take Cassandra down too.

He was able to move on later when she changed her mind and helped them out, but the reminder of how the world was was good for him. He had to give it to her that she saved Flynn instead of herself- but that didn't change that it was her own fault the Flynn got hurt in the first place. He may be able to work with her, but he sure as hell wouldn't trust her.

_(Not like working with people he hated was new.)_

 

/////

 

Three years had passed, and his master- his mentor- had betrayed him.

Logically, he knew that he shouldn't feel betrayed. The Monkey King wasn't doing this of his own free will, and Jacob _knew_ that.

But still, a part of Jacob was angry and bitter and frustrated and his brains where aching from concussion and his body was still cold and bruised from his dive down the waterfall.  He and the Monkey King were standing on the same bridge they had been just that morning, both with raised fists, but this time _angry_ , this time with real intention to harm, to do damage.

The King looked different- eyes red and his face no longer kind. Jake felt his heart pounding his chest, and part of him felt like just giving up, maybe spilling his guts _(that part was probably the concussion talking,)_ and taking a beating.  But he knew he couldn’t do that.

This was his responsibility- the world _first,_ the Library _first._ All the things he cared about? _Second._ That was in his job description. His life's description, frankly.

At some point, the student must surpass the master. At some point the student must be strong, must defeat his master, must prove himself.

Fate decided that day was today- and the fight began.

His master struck him- and he knew that he was too far gone, but he begged anyway. Jacob Stone was reduced to begging and blocking punch after punch because his master, the Monkey King, he was gone. He lost him, he couldn’t protect him. He couldn’t do anything right- not anymore. _Not ever._

The Monkey King was strong, but deep down, something heard him. Jacob took the opening, held the king at checkmate and begged. He didn’t want this, didn’t want blood on his hands. Not his _master's_ blood, _Shangrila’s_ blood as it fell around him.

He took a risk, he knocked him out- and Flynn was calling.

He caught the staff and hightailed it back to the unconscious King, threw it in his hands and begged again, because _he couldn’t do this._ The sun was setting, Shangri La’s fate hung in the balance and he was _begging._

And the King woke up, and the sun set.

And there were characters on his arm, magic in his blood and he panicked because _no,_ no this is the _one thing_ he didn’t want and somehow the blatant disrespect of it hurt more than the King trying to end his life moments earlier. The King was being cryptic, whispering, inner soul and gifts and you’ll know what it means when it’s time and Jacob was doing everything, _everything,_ of his power to contain the rage bubbling under his cold, bruised skin.

There was another secret. There’s something new to hide, from his friends, his family, his coworkers. He was a _hypocrite,_ among other things. He was a _liar,_ he always has been, by omissions and coverups and what he knew couldn’t make him better- couldn’t fix him.

Tonight, he saved Shangri La. Tonight he can sleep knowing that the status quo has been upheld, and even if the world is against him, nothing will cease to persist due to today’s failures.

He pulled down his sleeve, and went home.

 

//////

 

Only a few months passed till that sharp sting of betrayal reappeared.

By all accounts, he should have been happy. The others were. Everyone was celebrating their victory over Apep, the plan he created to save Flynn’s life, and the return of all the artifacts, _in tact,_ and pure evil contained.

But Jacob Stone wasn’t _happy._

His mind was a mess of emotions. He was _glad_ that Flynn was alive, _thankful_ that he’d been able to save him, _relieved_ that they saved Jenkins and the rest of the world. But he was _angry_ at Eve and Flynn for leaving him out of the loop, for being so careless to think they could handle it by themselves because it always went _so perfectly_ when any of them tried that. He was _boiling_ inside from seeing Jenkins as a statue. He was _furious_ at himself for using magic- even though he had no choice- because Jacob Stone was, if nothing else, _consistent_ in what he stood for. But the burning in his arm reminded him of what he’d done, and the stinging sense of betrayal rested in his chest.

Cassandra was cheering, suggesting they all go out to eat and celebrate together. Ezekiel, Flynn, Eve, even a begrudging Jenkins were all agreeing. But he couldn’t do it. Not today, not after all this, not after Eve handed them over to DOSA on a silver platter and-

But she didn’t do that. It was a plan that he wasn’t in on. It had to be done. But.. It still _hurt_.

“Stone?” Flynn asked and he pulled himself out of his head and grunted.

“You wanna come with?”

Jacob only realized then that everyone's eyes were on him. He shook his head no.

“I ain’t feeling great. I’m just gonna head home. Have fun.”

He grabbed his jacket and reset the backdoor, taking himself back to a door a few blocks from his apartment, just in case someone tried to follow him. Plus, the walk might help him clear his head.

But back in the library there was a heavy silence and sad looks stuck on everyone’s faces.

“You think he’s gonna be okay?” Cassandra asked to no one specific.

After a moment Jenkins replied, “I wouldn’t expect him to be. He tends to hold a grudge about these sort of things. You all know how long it took him to trust Ms. Cillian again after-”

“God, don’t remind me.” Cassandra groaned.

“I’ll go check on him,” Ezekiel said, but Jenkins gave Flynn and Eve and knowing look and they both nodded.

“I don’t think you’re the person he needs to hear from,” Flynn said calmly. “We’re the ones that upset him. We’ll go talk to him.”

Jenkins, Cassandra and Ezekiel all nodded and watched in silence as Eve and Flynn made their way through the backdoor.

They came out of the door and walked onto a bright sidewalk. The air smelt fresh and earthy, and the streets were lined with green trees and grass. White buildings and storefronts traced both sides of the road, open and inviting, and there were birds singing. For a moment, they were both so distracted that they almost forgot why they were there.

“Why didn’t it open right into his house?” Eve asked aloud.

“He must’ve figured we’d follow him,” Flynn replied, glancing around and scanning the passersby for Jacob. After a few seconds he spotted someone in the distance that he thought might be Stone, though it was only the back of his head.

“Come on, this way,” Flynn said, grabbed Eve’s wrist and pulling her in the direction of the man.

They followed him a way off as he walked down the sidewalk, speeding up only when he’d take a turn or pass through an alley. They walked the perfect distance away so that he couldn’t sense them following, but they wouldn’t lose track of him either.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a small apartment building and pulled a key out of his jacket pocket and then slipped in. Eve and Flynn hesitated, walking up to his doorstep and not saying a word to each other. They stood there for a few minutes, completely still, till Eve raised her hand slowly and knocked.

Stone didn’t reply.

So, she knocked again, harder.

There was a moment of silence, then the door opened.

_“What do you want.”_

Jake didn’t look happy to see them. His features were set plainly and his eyes were sharp. Eve could tell he was hiding his emotions because really, he did it more than any of them cared to admit. It was most obvious in his voice, which was gravelier than usual.

“We just wanna talk,” Eve said softly, half expecting him to slam the door in her face. But he didn’t. Hesitantly, he pulled the door open and stepped to the side and let them in.

His apartment was homely, all things considered. The walls were soft beige and the furniture was either a darker brown or a shade of blue. There were prints of famous art works hung on the walls, and a coffee table with some books resting in the center of the room, but other than that it was mostly empty aside from a desk with a computer in the corner. There was a shut door off to the side that led to his bedroom, and an open entrance to his kitchen, one other door placed somewhere between the two for a bathroom.

Eve and Flynn walked into the main room and sat on his couch while he disappeared into the kitchen. They sat in silence for a few minutes till he reappeared, setting two glasses of water on the table and then taking the third to his desk. He pulled the chair out and sat down in it, then swiveled it to face Flynn and Eve.

“What do you want to talk about?” His voice sounded different than it had before. Now, it wasn’t angry or gravelly. Just.. _tired._

Eve and Flynn shared a look and Eve decided to take lead.

“Stone,” She paused. _“Jacob._ I know we upset you today. We should’ve let you guys in on the plan- we were just.. Afraid that if something went wrong we’d all wind up dead. We needed you all to be there as backup. So, I’m sorry I made it look like I’d betrayed you all-”

He cut her off with a sharp, bitter laugh.

“W-what?” She asked, confused.

“You make it sound like you didn’t betray us.”

“I.. I didn’t? It was part of the plan?”

“No matter if there was a plan or not, ain’t like I knew about it. You still turned us over to DOSA. You still handed Jenkins over as if he were an _object,_ not a person. Flynn still risked his life.”

“What do you mean?” Flynn asked, voice genuinely confused. “We had to do it to stop Apep.”

“No, you didn’t. If you had put even an inch of faith in me, Cassandra, and Ezekiel, we would’ve been able to help. Today would’ve gone over way more smoothly. But you didn’t trust us.”

“Stone, it’s not like that. We just.. We needed you guys to be safe-”

“You put us more at risk by not including us!” His voice had become louder, and he was standing now. “If you had included us in your plan, maybe Flynn wouldn’t have almost died today. Maybe Jenkins wouldn’t’ve gotta stuck in a box. I’m sick and tired of you keeping secrets- _both of you.”_

“You would’ve tried to stop me! I thought I needed to sacrifice myself to save the world!”

“But you _didn’t._ And if you had told us your plans, you would’ve know that. I saved your ass today, Flynn. I could’ve saved you the trouble a’ almost dyin’ if you had trusted me.”

Flynn rubbed at his arm gently, thinking about how stupid he’d been. He looked up and Stone and nodded.

“You’re right.”

“I.. I’m what?”

“You’re right. I’ve underestimated you. Cassandra and Ezekiel too. I’ve been absent and you guys have tried to get me to work with you guys and I’ve been... stubborn. It’s best when we all work together. I need to try to be better about it.”

“You’re right about what you said about me too.” Eve added. “I did betray you, and I’m sorry. I let my emotions get in the way of doing my job. Jenkins said the same thing. Even if I didn’t mean to.. What I did today really hurt you guys. I’m not gonna let it happen again. Promise. I’m your guardian. I’m supposed to protect you all.”

Eve almost felt sick and the look of surprise on Stone’s face. He looked relieved, like he was expecting anger, or resentment. Like they were going to chew him out and ignore his feelings, insisting they were right and he was wrong.

But they didn’t.

“I… Thank you,” He said, voice no longer disguising his emotions. He sounded so genuinely happy that it made Eve smile, if only slightly. “I just..” He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

“I’m sorry that I’m so touchy about this sorta thing it’s just.. I ain’t.. I’m trying to work on trusting people. And I really wanna be able to trust you guys, I really, really do, but every time I’m almost there something happens and..” He trailed off, lowering himself back into his desk chair. “I’m not used to working with people anymore. Not people who I can be myself around, anyway. I’m working on it.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Eve said, standing up from the couch and moving to stand by Jacob. “We messed up. Not you. After meeting your dad last year, I can understand why trust doesn’t come easy. No one blames you for it. You know that, right?”

“I… Yeah, but,” He struggled to find quite the right wording. “It’s hard to believe sometimes. That it just ain’t me being broken.”

“Well, we’re here for you. Whenever you need us. We aren’t going to betray you again.” Eve said, wrapping her arm around his shoulder as Flynn stood up from the couch and walked over, doing the same thing on his other side.

“You can trust us.”

There was a brief moment of silence when Jacob let his head drop and his shoulder droop, years of tension starting to roll off his back.

_“Yeah,”_ He said softly. _“Yeah, I can.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story!
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at EducationalAdmiral!


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